The Truth About Sherlock Holmes
by katydidit
Summary: I am happy to finally announce that we have made it internet-official, dear readers: Sherlock Holmes and I are going steady. Madly in love. Oh and by the way if there are any gay-bashers out there, we're definitely not just doing this to catch you.
1. Chapter 1

AN: This is going to be only my third attempt at a lengthy story, dear readers, and I can only hope that I don't disappoint. If you'd be willing to allow me to use you to bounce ideas off of, please drop me a line, because I'm afraid that, unless I have someone to talk through things with, I'll get frustrated with this story and stop writing. In any case, I hope you enjoy this! I may end up taking it down and tweaking it a bit, but we'll see!

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The Truth About Sherlock Holmes

Even John could tell that Lestrade was uneasy. He'd asked them to come down to see him (well, really, he'd asked John to drag Sherlock down to see him), but now he was alternating between ruffling through papers at his desk and looking out the window at the people on the street. Sherlock was sitting nonchalantly, pretending not to notice the silent exchange between Donovan and Anderson and Lestrade's rumpled appearance and the way he'd been fiddling with the pens on his desk. John was sitting uncomfortably next to Sherlock, hoping he wouldn't say something ridiculous about Donovan and Anderson.

"Detective Inspector, are you going to tell us what we're here for, or shall I find someone to bring us some tea?" Sherlock's patience was growing thin. Probably he was getting bored. John sighed. Lestrade finally turned around and seemed to steel himself for some unpleasant task.

"Right. What I've called you down for." He picked up a pen, uncapped it, capped it, and put it back down. "I've got...well, kind of a preposition, kind of a request, kind of a job." He cleared his throat, then looked at John and laughed a little. It was rare to see Lestrade looking so out of sorts. Sherlock arched an eyebrow. John also cleared his throat. "So we've got a case. There's a serial killer who seems to be targeting—well..." Another uncharacteristic giggle, seemingly borne more out of nervousness than actual humour. Sherlock and John exchanged a look. "Well, gay couples. Men specifically. And that's why we've called you in. It's not how we usually use your help, but we need you to...well, act as bait for a few weeks." He looked up at the men. "As a couple."

John choked a bit. Sherlock remained nonchalant, much to John's bewilderment. He was about to demand an explanation, a justification for such an unorthodox request, when Sherlock's deep voice spoke up.

"Sure."

The entire world had gone completely bonkers. John shot to his feet and looked between the two men. Surely this was some kind of joke. Lestrade and Sherlock were collaborating in some kind of silly prank in order to...well, he couldn't quite figure out what for, but that was really the only explanation. Lestrade had visibly relaxed a bit upon Sherlock's agreement, though he still looked slightly apprehensive.

"Sure? Don't I get some say in this? Why us? Don't you have people on payroll for this kind of thing? Actors you could call up?" Sensing Sherlock was going to offer no support whatsoever, John redoubled his efforts at glaring Lestrade into confession. The detective shrugged.

"You two are highly public figures. You're well-known and you're in the media all the time, and, to be honest, people already kind of suspect..." He trailed off with a shrug. "If you don't want to do it, that's fine. We just thought..."

"We'll do it." Sherlock's voice sounded again, low and steady with just a trace of amusement. _I'm glad you're bloody enjoying this_, John thought bitterly. And it was true that they needed money—he hadn't been getting many hours at the surgery and sure Mrs. Hudson was patient, but she _would_ be requiring the rent payment fairly soon...

John sighed and sat back down, looking at Lestrade expectantly. The other man nodded slightly and pushed a case folder across his desk towards them. "We're not entirely sure who's who, but we do have a few suspects. These are the victims..."

The next hour or so was spent learning the specifics of the case. Sherlock was almost uncharacteristically quiet, absorbing every detail with slightly narrowed eyes. John was still having trouble wrapping his mind around the whole thing. He would have to pretend to be gay with Sherlock until they caught the suspect. He had to admit that it did make sense—people were always assuming they were together anyway, and nothing he said or did could convince them otherwise. It was smart on Lestrade's part, and at least he and Sherlock wouldn't have to do much acting, at least in public.

A thought occurred to John, and he could almost feel himself turning pale. Would they have to hold hands? Kiss? Just how deep was this cover going to go? They wouldn't have to act like a couple at home, would they? He stole a glance at Sherlock, who was still engrossed in Lestrade's explanations. Objectively, Sherlock was...well, interesting-looking, at the very least. John found his eyes drawn along his cheekbones, along his jawline, up to the cupid's bow of his upper lip. Without meaning to, he wondered what it'd be like to pull that lip into his mouth, worry it between his teeth and run his tongue along it.

"John."

Shit. Fuck. Both Sherlock and Lestrade were looking at him now, while he gaped open-mouthed at Sherlock's lips. He sat back in his chair a bit and cleared his throat. Why was his mouth suddenly so dry?

"Sorry, what?"

The other two men exchanged a glance, and Lestrade folded his hands. "I asked if you wouldn't mind mentioning something about this on your blog. Not the case itself—your...your new relationship. We want this to be as public as possible. Everyone's got to believe it, including your families and Mrs. Hudson."

"Blog...right!" Why was his brain taking so long to kick into gear? John resisted the urge to smack himself on the forehead—he was looking strange enough as it was. "Yeah, sure. Eh...what, exactly should I write? I wouldn't want to accidentally blow our cover or something."

"I trust you'll think of something." Why was Sherlock taking this so well? It was as though their roles were reversed—Sherlock should be snorting derisively and pacing around the room, playing hard to get so he could watch Lestrade squirm. Instead, he was just...sitting there like a statue. A wonderful statue carved of smooth perfect marble. Oh fuck. Seriously, John, get a grip. He drew in several deep breaths and tried to clear his mind. Fine. It was fine. He was a good actor and Sherlock was a good actor and in no more than a week they would have put another disgusting excuse for a human being behind bars or something. It was worth it. Now he just had to get a grip so that he could get through it.

"You're right." John said with a nod. He was beginning to feel more like himself again. He _could_ think of something.

"Is there anything else?" Sherlock was beginning to sound bored. Bored! Lestrade shook his head and waved them off. This felt strange. Surely they should be debriefed or something, sit through some kind of training or information session. But no—Sherlock was rising to his feet, and John really had no choice but to follow suit. Neither man spoke until they were seated in a cab, and even then it was John who broke the silence.

"What was that all about?" he hissed, with a glance towards the cabbie to make sure he wasn't paying attention to them. Sherlock looked at him almost innocently.

"It's a case. It's money Weren't you just worrying about money a few days ago?"

_Sure, Sherlock starts listening to me today of all days,_ John thought, but said nothing. It was a gray drizzly day, and the people outside the windows of the cab were a sea of gray and black umbrellas. In his head, John was already struggling to compose the blog entry. "Rainbow Flag", "Our Last Vow," "The Problem of London Pride"? "I am happy to finally announce that we have made it internet-official, dear readers: Sherlock Holmes and I are going steady. Madly in love. Lovers. Oh and by the way, if there are any gay-bashers out there, we're totally not just doing this to catch you." He had to reach up to loosen his collar.

After a moment, he felt Sherlock's eyes on the side of his face, and turned to look at him. In the moment before their eyes met, John could see that Sherlock was studying him with as much intensity as he would study a crime scene. His brows were knitted and his lips were tight with concern. Of course, as soon as he noticed that John was looking at him, his blank mask slipped back into place. He smirked a bit and extended his hand. "Are you ready to go inside, darling?" He asked, and wiggled his fingers. John placed his hand on Sherlock's, and his stomach clenched a bit in response. It was, of course, just nerves, not...anything else.

"Can you...not say stuff like that?" John managed, even as Sherlock laced their fingers together. His reply was a bright grin as the taller man slid out of the cab and tugged him out the same door. There was really nothing else John could do but follow Sherlock through the door to their building, trying not to focus too much on how the cool slim hand felt in his and hoping that Mrs. Hudson was tucked safely behind closed doors.


	2. Chapter 2

As soon as the two of them made it back into the flat, Sherlock watched John disappear into his room with his laptop. John typed slowly enough when he was writing about a case that they'd solved and filed away—he wasn't even going to try to ascertain just how long it would take the man to compose and type an entry about their new relationship. Sherlock retired to the couch, stretching out on his back and pressing his fingertips together under his chin.

It was no secret that John had been bewildered not only by Lestrade's request but also by Sherlock's quick agreement to go along with it. He wasn't sure he could put his motivation into words, and certainly not while talking to John. It had just seemed interesting—challenging. It had been a very, very long time since Sherlock had attempted a romantic relationship, and now the opportunity had all but fallen in his lap. This was even better than a "real" relationship because...well, because it was John. John understood things that most other people could not even begin to fathom. It would be fun to experiment with John, figure out how relationships worked while also solving a crime.

For example, in the cab. Saying "darling" had seemed strange, and, judging by his reaction, John hadn't been a fan of it either. Thus, Sherlock had learned in the space of about five seconds that pet names were odd. Holding John's hand had seemed much more normal, at least in terms of what people did in relationships. Pulling John out of Sherlock's side of the cab had been a bit awkward and ungainly: he would probably continue to allow John to take himself out of cabs on his own side from now on. Already he had gathered a good amount of data from this, and they hadn't even been "dating" for an hour yet.

He had also agreed because it had just seemed _obvious_. Much to John's apparent chagrin, the two of them were constantly being mistaken for a couple. The cover would work—it seemed that a majority of the people they encountered believed that they were actually together despite John's constant protests otherwise. Whenever he finished his blog post, people would probably just accept the announcement with a nod and a smile, assuming that Dr. Watson was finally "coming out". People so rarely examined their initial assumptions, after all.

There was also the money. Sherlock was never bothered by it one way or the other, but he had heard John muttering about bills and rent and groceries last night, and his voice had indicated elevated levels of stress. Sherlock had known as soon as he'd sat at Lestrade's desk that he was planning on paying them—there were funds requisitions forms sitting under his coffee mug (which, incidentally, had not been washed in at least four days). It had been tempting to resist for a while, make Lestrade sweat a bit, but the detective was already on the fence about asking them to do the job as it was, and he didn't want things to turn too quickly, forcing him to beg for the job. It would be undignified.

He sat up, then, and realized that John was now sitting in his chair next to the couch, computer in his lap. There was a mug of tea on the little end-table next to John and one on the coffee table in front of the couch. John wouldn't look at him, but Sherlock noted that he wasn't pecking at the keyboard anymore. Must have finished, then. He picked up his mug and took a sip.

"Blog finished?" His voice sounded strange in the silence of the flat.

"Yeah. It's nothing flowery or anything, but, you know. Gets the job done."

"I'm sure it's fine." Silence stretched between them again. John was sitting ramrod straight in his chair and paying rather close attention to the screen of his computer. His posture could, of course, be attributed to his time spent in the military, but Sherlock knew that it was based more in his discomfort than his training. John was trying to seem nonchalant, but he couldn't bring himself to lean back into the chair. His eyes were fixed on the screen but unmoving. He wasn't doing a damn thing on that computer—which raised the question of why he was bothering to sit in the room at all. Just as Sherlock was about to get up and retrieve his violin, John spoke up again.

"I think we should set up some, you know, ground rules for this whole pretend relationship thing." His words were hurried, as though he had pushed them out all at once. "How we do things out there and what we say...stuff like that."

"Of course. What did you have in mind?" Sherlock took another sip of his tea and glanced over at John.

"Well, first off, when we're up here in the flat, no acting. This is going to be strange enough as it is outside, I don't want to have to deal with it up here as well."

"Perfectly reasonable."

John hesitated for a moment, perhaps surprised that Sherlock had agreed so readily, but then gathered himself once more and continued. "Right. And no more pet names. Plenty of people have perfectly realistic, satisfying relationships without calling each other "darling"."

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. "'Darling' felt strange anyway."

"And...what about the whole..." John swallowed, hard, and still refused to look at Sherlock. This was clearly something that was weighing heavily on the man's mind. Sherlock sipped his tea. "You know, kissing thing? Because lots of other people have even more satisfying relationships without kissing or anything." Sherlock could tell that John did not have a lot of hope that this "rule" would go over well, and there was good reason for that.

"That's hardly realistic, is it?" He held out his hands as though in surrender. John wasn't exactly making an effort to hide his discomfort at their new situation, but it wasn't as though Sherlock himself was doing acrobatics with joy. John looked up at him now, and both men sighed almost simultaneously. "I'm not going to grab you and start kissing you with wild abandon in public, John." His voice was almost bored. "But when it becomes necessary to touch your hand or kiss you in order to keep our cover, I'm not going to hesitate just because you're disgusted by the thought."

John's face changed, softened a bit. "I'm not disgusted by you, Sherlock, or any other men." His voice was low, and now he was looking at his hands thoughtfully. "Except maybe Anderson." This elicited a pleased smirk from Sherlock, and the men made eye contact once again. "It's just that I like what we have going on right now—this friendship. I don't want this case to mess any of that up."

His words were genuine. Briefly, Sherlock toyed with the "any other men" part of John's speech, but soon filed it away right next to the long list of women the other man had dated. "I assure you that I am perfectly capable of separating our pseudo-relationship from our actual...friendship." He did not often say that word in relation to himself, and it felt...interesting. He caught just a hint of a smile on John's face, but before either man could say another word, there were footsteps on the stairs and then a knocking on the door.

"Boys! Let me in, I know you're in there!"

Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock reclined against the back of the sofa, leaving John to field the storm. As expected, John rose to answer the door, and as soon as it was open, Mrs. Hudson was pushing her way through. Once inside the flat, she stood between the two of them, glaring with her hands on her hips.

"When did it happen?" she demanded as John closed the door behind her and returned to his chair. Sherlock looked up at her innocently, but said nothing. Her anger had faded a bit, and now she looked almost hurt. "Living right above me and I have to find out with the rest of the world through your little blog? Honestly..."

"Dear Mrs. Hudson, we've only just found out ourselves," Sherlock finally answered, slipping into character as he rose to guide her to his chair. "Last night at dinner, John finally let slip how he felt about me. I revealed that I felt the same, and, as they say, that was that." He smiled openly at her, hoping to keep her eyes on his face and not John's. He knew without looking that John must have looked somewhat indignant and was now trying to cover that up. "We were going to go down to tell you in just a bit, but we just wanted to finish our tea first." He lifted his mug as though to prove his point, and Mrs. Hudson's hurt expression slowly changed into one of amusement.

"Well it's about time, anyway," she said with a knowing look at John. He had recovered a bit, and managed a bland smile in return. "I was wondering when you two would finally face the truth." She leaned over and patted Sherlock's knee. "You'll be good for each other, I know it. You already have been, but now I know it's going to be so much more. How did it happen? You boys know I'm a sucker for romance."

The two of them looked expectantly at John. Sherlock was watching carefully to make sure he didn't flounder too much, didn't hesitate or stutter and tip Mrs. Hudson off. He really needn't have worried—the other man sat up a bit straighter and even blushed a bit as he spoke. Well done, John.

"We were at Angelo's for dinner last night, because Sherlock had, of course, been microwaving eyeballs again and it really just put me off eating in the flat. So Angelo brought us a candle for the table like he always does since he says it's more romantic. We were sitting there looking at the menus when I noticed the way Sherlock's hair caught the light of the candle, and then he looked at me and I just sort of blurted it out. I couldn't keep it in anymore." He gave a nervous laugh. "I don't even really remember what I said, but it must have got my point across, because he just looked at me for a while and then...then he smiled that little smile he's got and looked at the menu." John looked at Mrs. Hudson, but Sherlock noticed that he was studiously avoiding looking at him. He was doing well so far: the older woman was watching him with bright, interested eyes. "So for a long time I thought he was trying to figure out how to let me down easy, you know, maybe ask me nicely to get the hell out of the flat or something, but finally he just reached out and took my hand and I figured that was his way of telling me he felt the same way."

Mrs. Hudson laughed tearily and glanced over at Sherlock. "He _is_ more the strong silent type, isn't he? Well, I'm so glad that it's all worked out for you two. Love isn't always easy, but I've seen how you two look at each other, and I know you both love a challenge." She patted Sherlock's knee again and stood up. "That's all I came here for. Shame on you for not telling me sooner, but I couldn't be happier for you." She turned around at the door to study the two of them with a conspiratorial grin. "The walls in this building are pretty thin, but my hearing's also not what it used to be, so...do with that what you will." Before either of them could say anything else, she left, and Sherlock thought he could hear her giggling on the way down. He looked over at John, expecting to see an awkward and shell-shocked expression, but the man looked fine.

"Not bad," he said appreciatively. John seemed to be blushing again.

"Yeah, well, I was in theatre in high school." John snapped his computer closed. "I'm going to bed." It was still early for John to go to bed, but Sherlock said nothing, and allowed him to slip from the sitting room to the relative safety of his bedroom. Sherlock would remain sitting on the sofa, draining the last cold bits of his tea and pondering the case.


	3. Chapter 3

As soon as the door closed behind him, John heaved a sigh and began undressing for bed. It was still almost stupidly early to go to sleep, even for a soldier, but it had been a very long, very awkward kind of day and he was really just looking forward to being through with the whole thing. He slipped between the sheets and closed his eyes, only to open then a few moments later. He should have known better, really. He didn't like lying to Mrs. Hudson. She was a lovely woman, nothing but trusting and kind, and John knew that she wouldn't blow their cover if she knew the truth. Still, it wasn't as though he really had a choice: it would probably be harder to explain the case than their "relationship".

The relationship. John pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes until coloured lights exploded under his eyelids. His explanation to Mrs. Hudson was apparently satisfactory, judging by her tearful reaction, but why had he chosen _that_, of all explanations? It had been a one-time thing, a strange dream brought on by exhaustion or too much alcohol or some combination thereof. It had been more bizarre, of course, with Angelo wearing long black robes and the restaurant spinning around them at dizzying speeds, but the essentials...they had been the same. He couldn't be sure that it had only been his mind augmenting his real memories, but the candlelight in the dream had both sharpened and softened the angles of Sherlock's face, made his jawline and cheekbones stand out while contouring his cheeks even further than usual. His hair and eyes had been glowing with a warm light that seemed less related to the candlelight than something from within. When he looked up at him from across the table, his eyes had been intense and held a meaning that came through perfectly in the dream but had quickly faded in the grey light of morning.

He remembered the sinking feeling when Sherlock looked away from him in the dream, remembered that the room's spinning had grown faster and made him feel sick to his stomach, and how it all faded away when Sherlock reached out to take his hand. As soon as their skin touched, relief had flooded through him. They locked their fingers together and didn't pull apart even when their food arrived. After dinner...

No. Nope. _Not happening_. John was not going to explore the memories of what had happened in the dream after dinner. It was far less detailed, but he still remembered exactly what had happened—it was practically burned in his memory, every blurry and uncomfortable second of it. Of course, he wasn't lying when he told Sherlock that he wasn't disgusted by men. It all truly was _fine_. Maybe it was because he'd grown up with Harry, or because it was simply the way things were, but he'd always been...open to all experiences. Women just tended to be safer. Of course, John thought with a wry grin in the dark as he considered his dating history, they weren't necessarily _easier_. He was just less likely to get knocked out for flirting with a woman than for flirting with a man.

But this was _Sherlock_. Sherlock who was married to his work and who, even if he were interested in other humans in _that _way, was so far removed from John's league that it was laughable.

John turned onto his side and stared at the light from the hallway coming in through the crack under his door. He kept his mind blank and empty, thinking about nothing but how sleepy he was and how much he wanted to fall asleep. He didn't hear any footsteps, but gradually he became aware of a shadow blocking the crack of light. Sherlock. Without meaning to, he held his breath. They weren't going to need to sleep in the same bed, were they? Certainly not—Sherlock had agreed that they wouldn't have to act in the flat. He imagined Sherlock standing there, maybe resting his hand on the doorknob, possibly deciding whether to push the door open and join him in the darkness. His heart was pounding, which finally reminded him that he wasn't breathing. Still, he couldn't draw in any air: not with that man standing just on the other side of his bedroom door.

The shadow melted away, and now John heard quiet footsteps heading along the hall to the other room. It was probably just a coincidence: maybe Sherlock had received a text message and paused right by his door to send a reply. John closed his eyes and redoubled his efforts to fall asleep, hoping that he won't have another repeat of _that_ dream. Things were already too strange, and he didn't need his subconscious to add to them.

John had expected his mobile to start going crazy shortly after making that blog post public, but he was less than thrilled to be startled from a pleasant sleep at roughly half past three in the bloody morning. He considered ignoring the caller—if it was really important, they could leave a damn message—but by the third call, he was beginning to suspect that whoever was calling was going to _keep_ calling until he answered. _Fine, you win,_ he thought to himself as he groped through the darkness for the phone.

"Hullo?" He answered. His voice was satisfactorily froggy, and cracked halfway through the greeting. Good. Maybe whoever was on the other end would be struck by his or her conscience and simply hang up to try again at a decent hour.

"Mummy's gonna go bonkers, Johnnyyy!" A familiar voice was sing-slurring through the line. This was worrying for several reasons. John sat up and turned on the lamp.

"Where are you? Are you alright?" In some other situation, with some other set of siblings, perhaps that immediate stab of worry would be unfounded, but...this was Harry. Any worry was perfectly founded, in John's book anyway.

"_I'm _just fine! It's _youu_ you need to worry about, brother dear." Harry started giggling. John held his breath. "First her sweet little girl turns out to be a lezzer, and then big strong soldier John's just a big old poof? Christmas'll be fun this year."

John was only half-listening to her words: mostly he was trying to ascertain from the background noises whether he was going to need to go pick up his sister from some dive somewhere. There was no loud music, no raucous laughter. Probably she'd just gone on a bender at home, which was good. Well...not _good_, really, but...better than the alternative.

But she did have a point. When Harry came out, she'd nearly torn the family apart. Their mother had spent several weeks weeping in her bedroom, and their father had threatened to throw Harry out of the house. Things still weren't quite the same between them, though at this point it had, the strain had all but become normal. John hadn't thought about his parents before posting that blog entry, because why should he? He was fully capable of making his own decisions. If he wanted to enter into a relationship (real or fake) with his best-friend-slash-flatmate-slash-crime-solving-mastermind, then what business was it of his mother's? It wasn't, that's what.

Still, he'd _really_ rather not completely tear his family apart. It would be one thing if he was actually gay. If this were a real relationship, based on mutual attraction and love and maybe even sex, then he would hold his head up high and ride into the fray because, honestly, he was a grown man. A soldier. He wasn't some teenager dependent on his parents for support and shelter, so if they had a problem with who he happened to love, then he could deal with them from afar. But this was a case. Did he really want to go through all this only to announce a little while later that it was all a cover? He groaned, even as his sister's ragged snoring crackled through the line.

John sighed and ended the call. He would deal with the fallout in the morning, once his mother awakened and did her morning catching-up. All he could do was hope that he'd come up with something clever to say in one of his dreams.

"Mum, would you please stop crying? Honestly, this is ridiculous." The day had been wonderful so far. Sherlock had been quiet all morning, thoroughly engrossed in reading the files and information that Lestrade had sent over. It seemed there was just enough intrigue involved in the case to keep him from getting bored and whirling through the flat like a child who'd had too much caffeine, but not so much that he grew frustrated and stomped through the flat like a child in sore need of a nap. John had taken advantage of the peaceful atmosphere and spent the morning drinking tea and catching up his blog. There were quite a few comments but, surprisingly, not as many offensive ones as John had been expecting. The majority of his readers had merely replied with triumphant variations of "I knew it!" or general well-wishes. The rest...well, between school sports teams and the army, they were hardly comments he'd never heard before. Even in person, it had been unprecedentedly easy for John to accept the stupid comments for what they were: macho posturing from men trying to cover up their own uncertainties. In electronic form, it was even easier: all he had to do was click a few buttons and the words disappeared into the ether. It was almost cathartic, in a way.

If only he could do the same for his mother. She had called him up and immediately broke into tears, while John sat in his chair clicking absently through his computer.

"I'm sorry, John! It's just that you were my last hope for a beautiful wedding. And grandchildren!" Here she seemed to lose it again, and had to take a few moments to gather herself. "Your father and I aren't getting any younger, you know, and we were hoping for more little ones to spoil. I'm sorry...sorry..." And another breakdown. John sighed as he heard the sounds of someone taking the receiver, and then his father's voice, dead serious as always, came on the line.

"I hope your new lifestyle is well worth it, John, because you've just sent your mother up to bed. Don't you remember what happened when your sister did this to us all those years ago? You couldn't just...keep it quiet?" John sighed. That was the problem. Whenever he or Harry had brought home bad news: a failed exam, a suspension from school, John's assignment for the army, it was always something they did to their parents. He was torn between the urge to try to correct his father (which was pointless) and the urge to just hang up the phone (which was dangerous).

"Why should I have to keep it quiet? Other people don't."

"Please, John. You're an adult, and you're acting like a schoolgirl scribbling some boy's name all over her notebooks. Adults do not need to announce to the world who they're sleeping with." John snorted, which was really all the response he could muster. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go take care of your mother. _Someone_ has to." There was hardly even a pause, and the line went dead. John stared at his mobile for a moment before tossing it onto the coffee table in front of him with a growl of frustration.

"You didn't even think of telling them the truth."

To be honest, John had all but forgotten Sherlock was there, sitting at his desk. Surprised, he looked over at him, but aside from a pointedly arched eyebrow, there was no sign that the man had even spoken. He was right, of course.

"I don't want to mess up the case," he replied with a shrug.

"But you don't mind messing up your family." It wasn't a question, but John had no response. It hadn't even occurred to him that he should tell his parents about the case. He spoke to them so rarely, it hardly even mattered. He'd expected more of a reaction from Harry, but maybe later, when she was more aware of her surroundings, he might get another phone call.

"They'll get over it," John said. It was true, anyway. He returned his attention to his computer, until he became aware of Sherlock's gaze heavy on his face. When he looked up, he caught him with a strange sort of expression on his face—searching, confused. Sherlock Holmes was not often confused. When he noticed John looking at him, he rearranged his face into a more neutral expression, then ventured one of his superficial smiles. John responded with a real smile and rose to his feet. "More tea?"


End file.
